The Day I Realized I Was Living for Everyone Else —<i></i> Edwin Ogie Library

The Day I Realized I Was Living for Everyone Else

A true-feeling, plain-language story plus practical steps to reclaim your time, voice, and choices. For students, teachers, and anyone who feels worn out by pleasing others.

By Edwin Ogie Library

Begin — A normal morning, until it wasn't

The morning began like many others: the kettle boiling, messages buzzing, and a list of small tasks on my phone. I had a class to teach at nine, an appointment at noon, and a friend asking if I could help move a small stack of furniture in the evening. It felt like a usual day—busy, useful, expected.

I remember standing by the sink, the steam fogging the window, and feeling an unexpected tightness in my chest. It wasn't a single big problem. It was a small, steady pressure, like someone turning a dial until the room felt smaller. I realised, in that quiet second, that my days were full of other people's needs. I had become a person who lived inside a long string of asks.

That moment—soft, not dramatic—was the start. It wasn't a sudden explosion. It was a thought: when was the last time I did something only for myself? The answer was a painful silence.

The turning moment — saying one small sentence

Two hours later, my phone chimed again—this time from someone I had helped many times before. The message began polite and ended with a request for a last-minute favor that would take my evening. My first impulse was the old one: yes. I had learned to say yes because the world rewarded it with gratitude, with a place in people's plans, with the feeling of being needed.

But the note in my chest from the morning returned. I typed slowly, the words small and unfamiliar: "I can’t tonight. I need to rest." I expected guilt to roll in—an avalanche of excuses and an immediate offer to swap times. Instead, there was quiet. A moment later, a single reply arrived: "Okay. Take care." That small permission, given and accepted, felt like a key opening a door.

The choice to say no was not heroic. It was clumsy and simple. But it shifted something. It showed me that one sentence could change the way a day unfolded. That evening I made tea, read for an hour, and went to bed earlier than usual. I woke up the next day with a thinner edge. I had more space to think.

How the pattern forms — small steps that become our habit

Why did I say yes so often before? It wasn't just kindness. It was a pattern built over years. Early on, saying yes meant safety: approval from adults, praise from teachers, acceptance from friends. Those small rewards trained me. Over time, the habit spread into every corner of life. If someone asked, I said yes. If someone nudged, I moved. If a friend needed, I rearranged.

The pattern grows quietly. It is reinforced by praise, by gratitude, and by the relief we feel when we solve someone's problem. Slowly, our own needs become the smallest items on the list. We begin to measure worth by usefulness rather than by who we are.

There are also cultural and social reasons. In many communities, helpfulness is a virtue strongly taught and rewarded. That is good—helping people creates strong ties. The problem is when help becomes the only role you allow yourself. Then you lose the practice of asking for what you need.

What it costs — quiet losses you may not notice

When living for others becomes default, you lose more than free time. Here are common costs I—and many people I talked to—noticed over time:

Energy: Your days feel depleted. You complete tasks but have little left for creativity or joy.
Boundaries: You forget how to say no. Requests that should be minor feel like heavy demands because you have no reserve.
Sense of self: You start to define yourself by what you do for others. "Who am I if I'm not fixing things?" is a dangerous question.
Resentment: Small bits of anger build when favors are taken for granted. This can spill into bitterness and hurt relationships.
Missed opportunities: Time and attention are limited. If you spend them always responding to others, you may miss chances to learn, rest, or grow.

These losses are quiet. They arrive as a tiredness that you get used to, and then you forget what being rested feels like. That makes reclaiming your life harder because the baseline of how you feel becomes the exhausted version.

Steps to start choosing yourself — small, practical, repeatable

It sounds simple to say "choose yourself," but practice is what changes life. Below are small steps that helped me—and that you can try this week. They are designed to be manageable, honest, and kind to the people you care about and to yourself.

1. Start with one protected hour

Pick one hour in the week and protect it. Treat it like an appointment you cannot cancel. Use it to read, rest, practice music, or walk. The point is not productivity but presence with yourself. Keep that appointment like you would keep an appointment with someone you respect.

2. Practice a short "no" script

Most people apologise or over-explain when they refuse. Try a short script: "I’m sorry, I can’t tonight. I need to rest." Or "I can’t take that on right now." Short, calm, firm. No long defence needed. You can offer an alternative when appropriate: "I can help tomorrow morning."

3. Notice and name the cost

When a new request arrives, ask yourself: "What will this cost me?" Name the cost out loud or in a note: time, energy, sleep, or focus. Naming reveals the trade-off. You do not need to accept every trade-off.

4. Keep a tiny "me" list

Write three small things that recharge you. Keep this list on your phone. When you have 15–30 minutes free, choose one item from the list instead of doing another task. Small choices add up.

5. Check in with a trusted person

Tell one friend or family member you are trying to protect time. Ask them to gently remind you if they notice you slipping back into old patterns. Having one witness helps you keep new boundaries.

6. Practice a gentle apology for tone, not for boundary

If someone is upset that you refused, you can apologise for the tone while holding the choice: "I’m sorry if that sounded abrupt. I can’t tonight but I can help tomorrow." This keeps relationships while protecting your limits.

Practice & prompts — small exercises to try this week

Here are short, easy exercises you can use alone or in a class. They are designed for students and young people, but anyone can try them.

Exercise A — One-hour appointment:

Pick one hour this week labeled "Me Time".
Put it on your calendar and tell one person (optional).
Use the hour for rest, a hobby, or nothing at all. Notice how you feel afterwards.

Exercise B — The cost check (30 seconds):

When someone asks a favor, pause and ask: "What will this cost me right now?"
Name the cost silently or aloud and decide. If you say no, use the short script above.

Exercise C — Me list:

Write three things that recharge you and are easy: a 10-minute walk, a song, a short chapter of a book.
When you get 15 minutes free, pick one instead of scrolling your phone.

Try one of these exercises for a week and write a short note: what changed? You may be surprised how small habits shift your energy.

Closing — Choosing yourself is practice, not perfection

I did not become a different person overnight after that first "I can’t tonight." I still slip. Old reflexes are strong—kindness, helpfulness, and the desire to be loved are good things. The work is learning to hold them without losing yourself.

Choosing yourself is not the same as being selfish. It is the decision to keep your reserve so you can be generous in ways that are steady, not draining. It is saying yes from abundance, not from an empty cup. It is a practice you repeat daily: protect small time, speak a short "no" when needed, and remember that your needs matter.

Small changes are powerful. One hour, one sentence, one small boundary at a time — these are the steps that build a life that feels like yours.

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